


Sovereign's Guilt

by VeloxVoid



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Azure Moon Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Issues, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort, Loving Marriage, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Romantic Fluff, Sad with a Happy Ending, Self-Acceptance, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, hidden love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22727368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeloxVoid/pseuds/VeloxVoid
Summary: A year has passed since the events of Azure Moon. Fódlan celebrates, reunited under a rebuilt Garreg Mach. Yet, despite the festivities, Dimitri is still haunted by the events of his victory: traumatised by war, and riddled with guilt. With the support from his love, the King attempts to enjoy the festival, but will he be able to quell the resurgence of his tribulations?
Relationships: Dimidue - Relationship, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvix
Comments: 15
Kudos: 74





	1. The Remorse of Sororicide

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler Warning:  
> Contains spoilers for Fire Emblem Three Houses, in particular the end of the Azure Moon route.

The marketplace looked beautiful.

Somehow, despite the borderline destruction of Garreg Mach, a year had utterly transformed it. The place had almost returned to its former glory under Dimitri’s instruction, and had resumed service from its past academy days. Somehow, though, seeing it in this way was jarring; unreal, almost. Too… normal.

Now, Dimitri stood in the entrance of the monastery's marketplace, the Anniversary Festival well underway. Stalls of every description surrounded him: the hot scents of food, rows of carved wooden icons, vigorous competitions. Everything was… perfect. As it should have been. There was more war — no more bloodshed. Now there were only happy children and embracing lovers and an evening sky so beautiful it took Dimitri’s breath away. Despite the sun still hanging low in the sky, every star could be seen already, glinting white and silver and gold upon a sky of rose and violet. Torches were being lit around him, casting a warm glow upon the cheeks of each smiling face that passed by.

If only it wasn’t celebrating something so bittersweet. The Kingdom had won — Dimitri was Fódlan’s new ruler. But, at what cost? At times he’d doubted the authenticity of his new status, for it had only been achieved through murder. Admittedly, it was the murder he had once craved so dearly, but now it felt nothing more than a sting within his blackened heart.

“Your Majesty?” The deep, dulcet tones of Dimitri’s favourite voice almost made him jump out of his skin.

The King turned, finding Dedue standing behind him, a gentle concern cradling that rough-hewn face. “Dedue, please,” he gave a breathy laugh, looking around him. “Nobody is around. You don’t have to call me that.”

Dedue’s brow furrowed. “Dimitri.”

“Yes?”

“Why are you standing here? Are you not enjoying the festival?”

“Of course I am! I’m enjoying it very much.” Dimitri took another look around him — at the stalls so plentiful he couldn’t begin to count them all, each crammed tightly together in the little hub. “I was simply admiring it.”

But the man could see straight through him. “You’re thinking about it again.” Dimitri could give no response but a sigh. “You must _rest_ —“

“And that’s why I’m here. That's why _we’re_ here.” He took Dedue’s hand. “To get away from our responsibilities, and to celebrate the anniversary of our victory. I thought you’d received the memo?” And he squeezed the man’s fingers.

“You cannot mask your lies beneath your… pitiful attempts at jokes.”

“I thought that one was rather good…”

Dedue’s eyebrows became serious once more. “You’ve been restless. I know you keep up appearances for the sake of your peers, but you cannot keep this inside you.”

Dimitri said nothing, keeping his lips closed tight. Since becoming ruler, opening up to anybody — even Dedue — had become infinitely harder. His crazed state in the past had come as a shock to even himself, and as a result, any negative emotions were hard to share. No, the Saviour King would rather keep quiet — would shut himself off to the world rather than worry anybody with his anxieties. A king should be secure — be stable. Should be just, and righteous, and assured.

Dimitri was none of those things.

“What have you been hiding?” While stern, there was a softness to Dedue’s voice as he peered into the good eye of his King. It was a softness that only Dimitri could spot — only ever flickering across the man’s stoic face in moments of tenderness. “Talk to me.”

“I have nothing to say.” Dimitri removed his fingers from where they’d been entwined with his love’s, and pulled his cloak further around his body. “I’m merely… reminiscing.”

“About the war? About the memories from a year ago? About the reason why you won?” Dedue’s words sent prickles across the King’s skin — a chill that no cloak could keep at bay. “This is hurting you. It's plain for anybody to see, yet still you try to hide it—?”

“Dedue, _please_.” An edge of desperation rose in Dimitri’s voice as he closed his eye. The blackness of his world became stained with red; drop by drop, the blood swam into his vision until it was all he could see — consuming his entire being. He was being drowned — pulled back into the void of war he’d tried so frantically to escape. Somewhere beneath the surface was the tortured face and dying gasps of his stepsister, the life fading from those lilac eyes.

And then, the snagging branches of stone-cold regret wrapped and tightened around each of the King’s tender, brittle bones. Like a death grip, they squeezed at his every muscle until eventually it felt the poison would ooze, dripping out of his pores, thick and black. There was a toxicity inside him — the burdens he carried and the ghosts curdling with his soul. Hundreds of spirits were trapped with him eternally, hissing and groaning and clawing at his skull, desperate to escape. They were the spirits of people he’d killed; people whose lives he’d snatched away and whose families he’d left in mourning. People doing nothing more than obeying orders, otherwise innocent.

Most of all, though, there was her. _Edelgard._ The name almost made him wince — her visage making each of his nerves tense. Her face pale and tortured, mouth agape and eyes suddenly looking so scared — so young, as they’d used to in her childhood fright. But she was dying. Bleeding, choking, her breath a moribund rattle in her throat, all at his hand—

“Dimitri.”

Dedue’s voice once again pulled the King from his oblivion. He could see again. The dusky sky, the festival stalls, the burning torches. The sounds of the festival filled his ears, replacing the sounds of the Emperor’s death. And his man — his love — stood before him, eyes as vibrant as the fronds of the plants he so dearly nurtured.

Dimitri swallowed. “Stay with me tonight?”

Still with such softness adorning his face, Dedue nodded. Now, Dimitri understood: Dedue already knew. The man had known how much Dimitri would need him tonight, on the anniversary of his stepsister’s murder. He’d been able to sense the buildup — would have anticipated the crash. It made the King smile; while he’d spent the evenings pacing, struggling to rid himself of his mind’s torturous images, Dedue had been there. More caring, more gentle. Even more attentive, somehow. His kisses more delicate, words more benign. No matter how much Dimitri could try to hide his turmoil, there was one person who would always be one step ahead of him.

As the vassal slipped his hand back around the lord’s own, Dimitri felt his heart begin to warm in the way it always did around Dedue. All he wanted was to hold on tight — to fall into his love’s embrace and go home, spending the night wrapped up in each other and never relenting. Alas, he could not. Alas, he had to let go, instead giving Dedue a smile that needed no words. No, Fódlan did not yet need to know about the bond between Blaiddyd and Molinaro. Tonight, Fódlan would celebrate triumph, and peace. And tonight, Dimitri would have dreams razed by the horrors of his actions one year ago.

Bracing himself, he pulled his hand from Dedue’s once more, and stepped forwards into the festival.


	2. An Anticipated Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting up with old friends, Dimitri struggles to feel at home. Yet his concerns fade momentarily as, after years of tension, the secret is out for two of the Blue Lions.

"There you are, Dedue!"

The two men had barely stepped into the bustle when already somebody demanded their attention. Approaching them came the familiar forms of Annette and Mercedes, both looking resplendent in their celebratory dresswear.

"Oh, hello again," said Dedue upon their appearance. The four had met up briefly earlier in the day upon reaching Garreg Mach; while the festival was being set up, some of the academy graduates had been asked to give brief lectures to current students. "I trust your lectures were a success?"

The women chuckled immediately. "Mine went well, thank you." Mercedes' voice was as light as usual, like a soft breeze one had to strain to hear over the rowdy celebrations. "As for Annette's…"

"Ohh, Mercie, you didn't have to mention that!" The woman began to pout. "It… It went fine! I'll leave it at that."

"I'm assuming it did not go fine." Dedue cracked a smile as he watched Annette bury her face in her hands in shame.

Dimitri looked past the chatting graduates out into the festival, seeing yet another familiar face. Ingrid Galatea stood waiting by a nearby food stall, golden hair tied into elaborate plaits. A fond memory rose from where it was entombed deep in Dimitri's mind; to soothe him before their battle at Ailell some years ago, the woman had played with Dimitri's hair.

Her words came flooding back to him. "You should really wash this more often…" A note of distaste had lined her voice — a voice that had felt simultaneously so familiar, and yet still so far away during those morose times in Dimitri's life. Still, despite her aversion, Ingrid had woven her fingers through her King's hair, her fingertips somehow so soothing against his scalp. She'd pulled away the hair that fell in thick strands over his good eye and braided it back, into an elaborate twist that felt so delicate and gentle as Dimitri ran a hand over it. Something so small and fragile upon the man whose only goal was destruction… At the time, he'd felt he didn't deserve it.

Now, from where she stood, Ingrid raised her eyebrows at Dimitri in recognition. The King somehow managed a smile, giving a nod to her in return.

"There's a cooking competition going on at the soup stall!" Annette's voice filled his ears once again, drawing his attention back to the conversation he was half a part of.

"We could think of nobody more perfect to enter it than our dear Dedue," Mercedes finished.

"I was thinking of entering it, too!" Annette exclaimed.

"No, please… do not." Dedue's face looked queasy; on more than one occasion he'd mentioned trying to tutor the girl in their academy days, only resulting in disastrous attempts at meals that would sicken the stomachs of the other Lions. Dimitri had only been able to feel her food's texture — having no sense of taste at the time — but even the mouthfeel of Annette's creations had been amiss.

The two women began to coax Dedue into joining them in the soup competition, with claims it would "be fun", and that his cooking was "fit for Sothis". Despite his protests and thrown looks of concern at Dimitri, the man eventually agreed after the King's nod of approval. He could manage a moment without his love, and if he couldn't, he would simply visit the soup stall.

"If you say so." Dedue placed one gloved hand upon Dimitri's shoulder. "Just… try to enjoy the festival," he said firmly, before being whisked away by an excited Annette and Mercedes.

 _Try to enjoy the festival…_ The words rattled hollowly around Dimitri’s brain. How was he to do that? He looked around himself, suddenly feeling so alone despite being surrounded by people.

All at once, he became a stranger. Festival-goers turned their heads as they passed by, whispering in hushed voices as they stared at him.

" _Is that the King!?_ ", " _King Blaiddyd…?_ ", " _No, it can't really be him…_ "

Everybody knew him, and by the sounds of the festivities, everybody liked him — celebrated his victory. Yet nobody approached. Nobody came to speak to him, to soothe him or congratulate him or share their tales with him. Instead, everybody took a good look — a long stare with wide, disbelieving eyes — and left. It made him feel estranged: unwelcome in his own Kingdom, at his own festival.

"Hey."

A familiar voice made Dimitri turn. Ingrid stood at his side, an aloof smile lighting up her eyes of emerald. She was holding something towards him — something that effused steam and the hot scent of fried food into the chilly evening air around them. A skewer stuffed with dumplings.

"Thank you." Dimitri took it, the wooden stick feeling like a shard of ice in his hands — so fragile he thought he might snap it. He took a bite, feeling with dismay that despite his progress — despite sensation slowly returning to his taste buds during his rehabilitation — tonight, he could feel nothing. The dumpling was hot, scorching the inside of his mouth, but that was all.

"Bet you're having a _great_ time." Ingrid's dry tone was somehow so comforting. In those few simple words, she showed she understood. She'd had her fair share of pain many a time, just as Dimitri had. She too was haunted by the scars of war, of conflict, of death. No more needed to be said.

Just as Dimitri was about to give her his thanks once again, Ingrid grabbed his arm in a steel grip, causing the man to wheel around in panic. “What’s the matter?” he whispered, his hiss cutting through the babble of the crowd behind them.

In one gloved hand, Dimitri clutched the wooden skewer hard, heat emanating from it and warming his cheek where he held it to his face. His other came up to the centre of Ingrid’s back as he leaned in closer, quickly following those wide, virescent eyes to the mountains in the distance. The back of his neck had already begun to tingle, a sinking feeling of unease creeping through the pit of his stomach and threatening to make him sick. Something had to be wrong.

The cheers and roars of the surrounding festival-goers faded to nothingness. With only the chilly breeze whistling through Dimitri’s ears, he could picture it now: the blood-red forms of Edelgard’s military crashing down the mountain; the sounds of their sanguinary howls cutting through the evening air; their cold, unseeing eyes glowing through the snow as they came upon the monastery like a stampede. Adrenaline coursed through Dimitri’s body at the thoughts, the images racking him until he quaked with anticipation. But, the Imperial army was dead. Edelgard was dead. He knew this — had tried to make peace with the fact for almost a year. The battle was over, the war was won, but never could Fódlan’s new ruler feel at peace. Instead, he held his friend close in fear — in protection — and instinctively reached for the spear that usually sat upon his now-empty belt, scouring the horizon for signs of their enemy—

“No,” Ingrid breathed. Her hand came up to Dimitri’s face, holding his jaw and directing his focus lower down. Two figures stood almost obscured in the shadows of the back wall, just visible from behind the weapons stall, their silhouettes glinting red and gold as torches flickered around them. Were they Edelgard’s soldiers? Perhaps spies sent by her phantom to find their reunited party? One was taller than the other, and they stood incredibly close: an informant sharing hushed secrets to their superior—?

The shorter of the two had dark hair, messily tied into a ponytail and glinting azure beneath the torchlight. _Felix_. Dimitri would recognise his short frame anywhere. The man was not whispering into an ear, but…

“ _Kissing!?_ ” The word blurted from Dimitri’s mouth without intention. He narrowed his eye, looking closer. _Kissing_ _…_ “ _Sylvain!?_ ”

Ingrid’s lips were parted in shock, the scene shooting disbelief through her face and causing breath to catch in her lungs. Dimitri’s face, however, broke into a grin, and he bared his teeth as a chuckle rose inside him. He gripped at Ingrid’s upper arm, and turned to face her. With a hearty laugh, Dimitri embraced his childhood friend, all pain and concern turning to dust and catching on the breeze as Ingrid’s face pressed against his chest, bubbling over with elation. Felix and Sylvain had been so close for so long; everybody had expected something would come of their tension and teasing sooner or later. Apparently, it would be sooner. And it was about time.


	3. To Make Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why can Dimitri not sleep at night? What is it that haunts him? What is the one thing he needs, but forgot all about?

Perhaps this festival would not be so bad after all.

Years of solitude had transformed the King. When one had nobody but the ghosts of their trauma for company, it was easy to forget the bonds of friendship that had once been forged. It was easy to forget how much they could warm the heart — restore feeling to the chest and light to the eyes.

Since his victory, Dimitri's road to recovery had been slow. It had only been a year since the conflict had perished at his hand, and Dedue had warned him that rehabilitation was not a straight road. Even still, it felt so… tedious. Unbearable. _Frustrating_. It was over. Everybody could move on. The world was being rebuilt; wounds healed; heartbreak mended. So, why could he not find peace?

As a child, recovering from the death of his parents had not felt nearly so hard. Of course, he'd mourned them dearly — he still did — but perhaps his innocence and youth had made the healing process that much easier. Perhaps it helped that he was not their murderer. Perhaps it helped that he was not responsible for leaving their bodies soulless shells. He had watched them die, heard his father's last words, but had been cradled to sleep at night not by the guilt of his actions, but by the dreams of revenge.

Now that he'd had revenge, it had not tasted nearly so sweet. Once, Dimitri had anticipated to taste once more when achieving vengeance — feel sweet, rich magnificence spreading across his tongue, so good it would make saghert and cream taste like gruel. In actuality, it had made him want to vomit. He'd felt regret. He'd felt bitterness. The only flavour in his mouth had been one of tar — sticking to the roof of his mouth and filling his throat in a solid, cloying lump: unmoving. Choking him.

It would be hard to bury that feeling. Having the love of his life by his side had already been an immense help; Dedue was not only a fantastic vassal, but the most calming presence he'd ever been around. Until a couple of minutes ago, Dimitri had felt as though he and Dedue were alone against the world. Now, in the arms of his childhood friend, watching the love shared by two men so dear to his heart… Perhaps the King was not so forsaken. He may have rejected the company of others in the past, but Dimitri could — and had tried to — make amends. Perhaps now he could recover with the company of old friends.

Amidst the war, when the Blue Lions had reunited once again, battered and broken with spirits of gloom, Dimitri would have laughed at the concept of accompanying a friend. He'd considered himself a war machine: his only communication with others to be to give orders and bark directions. When he'd felt too awful to even bathe, let alone speak to any of the people he once held so close, he wouldn't have _dreamt_ of sharing what he was enduring. The only forms of sharing would come in outbursts — when recounting his war plans, or when pushed to snapping after being pestered one too many times. Instead, he would fester in his tenebrosity — his vision red and seething — and would spend his days looking upon the destruction of Garreg Mach and listening to his ghosts.

"My Lord, we're all here for you, you know…" The little voice of Ashe Ubert had filtered in amongst the whispers one day — a voice so familiar and small echoing through the cathedral they'd stood in.

Dimitri had turned, towering above the boy who positively cowered beneath him. A memory had struck him like a knife in the back: their academy days — the youthful Dimitri assuring young Ashe that they were friends, not a lord and a subject. He'd watched Lonato's new son become more confident in his company: having the first word, sharing his tales, and even calling Dimitri by his first name.

That had disappeared.

In that moment, Ashe had looked frightened. Eyes such a striking chartreuse looking fearful — as though he were in the presence of a beast. Dimitri had seen his own shadow engulfing the boy's form and drowning the tiles at their feet in darkness — a hulking, brutish silhouette that could easily have been the Hegemon Husk, shooting fear through the face of the boy he'd once considered a friend.

In a short, sharp moment of realisation, a single pang of guilt snapping through his core, Dimitri had felt so wrong. Something that was once a friendship, now tarnished. In ruins, like the cathedral around them. What had he done? What had he become—?

"We're all your friends, you know... You can talk to us."

In those few simple words, Dimitri's guilt had dissipated. His vision had clouded once more. "I don't have friends anymore," he'd simply growled, and had turned away from Ashe Ubert.

Now, that guilt had returned tenfold. Dimitri removed himself from Ingrid's grasp, the festival coming back to life around them as the woman smiled at him in the aftermath of their happiness. For the first time in a long, long time, Dimitri had felt childish joy again. It was possible. Despite it being soon replaced with a bubbling pool of acidic penitence for his past actions against those he loved, that was an achievement in the eyes of Dimitri Blaiddyd.

"Ingrid, I…" he started, locking eyes with her. "I'm so sorry. For who I became during the war."

Surprising him, Ingrid merely laughed. He'd expected her face to sour — expected her to frown and look away and grimace remembering his lamentable acts. Instead, her eyes lit up. "You already apologised, _Your Highness_ ," she chuckled. "No need to be so formal. What's done is done."

Those few simple words made his eyes begin to well up, stinging the damaged one he hid from the world. "You don't… resent me?"

Ingrid placed her hands upon her hips. "No. You apologised once before, and you're forgiven."

"An apology doesn't feel like enough," Dimitri said, looking back out at the festivities around him. Felix and Sylvain had pulled away from each other in the distance, and were now simply talking. "It feels weak. Meaningless."

"You won this war for us. You thanked us for our service, you apologised for your actions, and you changed who you were. You became like your old self again. And you've started to repair the nation that she sought to destroy. Dimitri, what else could you want?"

Her words stung. Dimitri couldn't have felt further from his old self. He'd tried to repair the war-torn nation, but sometimes he could still see the remorse upon the faces of those he passed; the suffering they'd endured — the loss they'd seen. All because of something that could have been prevented. Dimitri could never repair that. He was powerless to that.

_… the nation that she sought to destroy…_

Those words stung the most. Right at the end, when the cataclysm had hung in his fingertips — the Emperor on her knees and his hand outstretched towards her — Dimitri had seen anguish in Edelgard's eyes. He had seen the fear that had embraced her as her utopia had slipped away, everything she'd strived for crumbling in his grasp. Edelgard von Hresvelg had never sought to destroy Fódlan. She'd aimed to improve it — to create it anew in an image she had deemed perfect. It had been wrong — had been forged from death and destruction — but all she had strived for was a better world.

Just as Dimitri had.

He closed his good eye and took a breath.

"You feel like your apology wasn't enough for us? For the Lions?" Ingrid asked, a little gentler this time. Dimitri nodded in response. "So, why don't you make things right? Apologise again? I'll come with you."

The King took in the view of his world once more — red and orange and yellow celebrations all around him, and a glimmering sky. "I'd like that."


	4. Resurfaced Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri's apology becomes so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback on how the dialogue is written would be appreciated! It is not my forte.

Remembering the dumpling that remained in his hand, Dimitri took another bite into his snack. It had cooled down considerably, no longer scorching his mouth as he felt the soft meat beneath his teeth. He and Ingrid decided to approach Felix and Sylvain first — the two being the only of the Blue Lions in sight — and watched as the red-headed Margrave poked his partner in the ribs.

"If it isn't His Kingliness! And Ms. Galatea, the Knight of Blaiddyd!" Sylvain's personality was as big as ever.

"Shut up," was Ingrid's greeting to him.

"Whatever could've brought the boar and his puppet knight over to us?" And Felix's personality was as… unsavoury as ever. "Surely the King has bigger and better things to be doing tonight than talking to his subjects?"

Dimitri couldn't contain a smile. Felix bowed to nobody. That much hadn't changed. "It's good to see you too, Felix."

The Duke gave a contented nod of salutations towards him.

"Now, now, stop playing coy, you two. Should we be expecting your nuptials any time soon?" Ingrid smirked.

Felix's pale face grew red at once, brow contorting with rage. "What—!?" he spluttered, just as Sylvain laughed:

"You saw that?"

"Sylvain!" Felix hissed.

Something swelled in Dimitri's chest as he watched the two men bicker; they were utterly unchanged. Sylvain's eyes had lost some of their devilish gall to be replaced with a warm softness, and Felix had finally figured how to comb his hair stylishly, but their squabbling sent Dimitri's brain hurtling back to their academy days, watching Sylvain ruffle Felix's feathers after inevitably annoying him somehow. He felt himself crack a smile, and his chest bubbled over as a hearty laugh escaped his throat.

His joyous outburst hushed the two men at once. "What's gotten into you?" Sylvain smiled.

"Finally lost it," spat Felix.

"He's _laughing_ at you, you clowns," Ingrid told them.

"You call _us_ clowns when this jester over here hoots like a drunkard? I don't even know what's so funny." Felix frowned, raising an eyebrow as Dimitri dissolved into little chuckles.

"You two," he said at last, "bickering! Why, I'd mistake you for an old married couple already."

Felix's cheeks began to glow once again. "Say another word, Boar. I'll have your tongue for insolence."

"Are you forgetting who you're talking to? This is your _king_ ," Ingrid's voice was patronisingly slow. "Can you not see that, or are you too busy getting lost in Sylvain's eyes?"

The Duke of Fraldarius — evidently forgetting his title — lunged towards the woman, only to be grabbed by Sylvain. He made indignant squawks, trying to wrestle from the other man's grip, but Sylvain spoke over him. "Oh, yeah. You should _hear_ the banal drivel he comes at me with."

"Sylvain—!" Felix warned.  
  
"Like what!?" Ingrid cooed.

"Oh, Margrave Gautier, you make my life worth living—!" Sylvain began in a mocking tone, only to have his lover wrench free of his grasp and push him in the chest.

"In what world have I _ever_ said that!?"

Watching the three friends chat so easily, getting wound up and sharing jokes like old times… Dimitri's heart began to pound a little harder, finally seeming to break from its icy confines. He'd almost dreaded seeing the faces of his friends upon hearing about the festival, collapsing into a worried mess in Dedue's arms while panicking about if he'd face backlash. Now he was here, though, everything felt right. It felt as though no time had passed — as though…

"Does…" he started, watching each face turn to him with varying expressions. "Does this not feel like old times?"

Ingrid cocked her head. "How do you mean?"

Dimitri inhaled. "This whole situation. Felix and Sylvain arguing, everybody laughing. I recall… our childhood. Outside my house in Fhirdiad. It was snowing, but our families all met up for some meeting or another. Ingrid, I remember we stood upon the front steps, watching the carriages carrying Felix and Sylvain and their families through the gates."

"Of course," she said airily, eyes glazing over as she remembered. "My family got there early, because the King wanted to break his fast with my parents."

"Which time was this?" Felix grunted. "I remember a hundred days like that in our childhoods."

"The one where we each tried to make a snowman in the palace gardens," Dimitri remembered it fondly.

Sylvain grinned at once. "And we all got into a fight over whose was the biggest!"

"Oh, of course!" Ingrid beamed. "It was obviously mine!"

"Not true! Yours was only biggest because you stuck two big branches in its head!"

"Those were his horns! He was a snow-beast!"

"The deal was whose snow-creature was the biggest. If Ingrid's had horns, they should have counted,” said Dimitri.

"Oh, get outta here, Your Highness," Sylvain dismissed him. "Yours was the shortest, anyway."

"And then we all started hitting each other," giggled Ingrid. "That turned into an all-out brawl."

Dimitri joined her laughter. "I remember getting one of your snow-beast's branches stuck in my hair, somehow!"

"Glenn broke us up," Felix said distantly, his face showing neither happiness nor sadness.

His words cast a coldness over the conversation. Dimitri broke the silence. "Yes, he did. Told us to act like little lords and ladies and settle our differences politely." The words were bitter on his tongue. Glenn should have been there when all hell broke loose six years ago.

"I remember that too," Ingrid said, voice quiet. "I remember looking up at him, and seeing how kind he was. He pulled me off of you, Sylvain, but he wasn't rough, nor angry. I'd never really understood betrothal, but in that moment I knew… I knew I wouldn't mind marrying somebody like that."

"I remember he pulled me aside to tell me to throw snowballs at you, Fe," Sylvain smirked, bringing light into the dark conversation.

"That was him…?" One corner of Felix's lips curled upwards. "That jerk. All these years I've blamed _you_ for ruining my velvet doublet."

Even childhood memories were tarnished by war. Glenn — once so tangible — was gone in a heartbeat. The merriment of a moment ago had been snatched away like a bird taking wing. Would there ever be happiness again, when some bloodshed or another would rear its ugly head over each reminiscence?

"Felix, Sylvain. I wanted to apologise." Dimitri said the words before he could stop himself.

The men gave him looks of confusion; Sylvain's curious, Felix's vexed. "What're you apologising for?" asked Sylvain.

Dimitri took a breath, saw Ingrid's nod of encouragement, and continued. "For the way I treated the both of you during the war. I was out of line.”

"Congratulations for stating the obvious," Felix drawled. "You've already told us this."

"My previous apology feels empty," Dimitri said. "Now, I want to mean it. To tell you I'm sorry for putting you through all of that. For dragging you into the carnage, and being nothing more than insolent to you in return."

"Agh, stop it, Your Highness—" Sylvain waved a hand.

“Call me Dimitri, please,” the King insisted.

"You said you were sorry and you made it up to us. You won us the damn war! We know you’re not who you were a year ago anymore.”

Dimitri nodded to him, grateful. Next, he simply looked at Felix.

The man rolled his eyes, and then began to smirk. "I will savour this moment for the rest of my life. The Boar Prince— no… The Boar _King!_ Begging for my forgiveness."

"Ugh!" Ingrid spat. " _Must_ you be so insufferable?"

"I'm hardly begging…” Dimitri gave a queasy smile.

Felix's eyes glowered at him, amber in the torchlight. "Then beg."

"Sylvain, _how_ are you in love with this!?" asked Ingrid, incredulous.

Sylvain pressed his lips together. "He, uh… He has his charms." Although he didn't look too sure.

"Will you forgive me?" Dimitri asked once more.

A playful smile danced upon the lips of Felix Fraldarius. "Yes." Then, he sighed. "Yes, Boar, I'll accept your apology. Despite the _monster_ you once were, you've been a mighty king. And…" For a split second, he looked almost shy. "… a great friend."

"Aww!" Ingrid and Sylvain both approached him, Sylvain grabbing his waist while Ingrid pinched one of his cheeks.

"Get off me! You heard none of that."

But, Dimitri's mind was elsewhere. It was as if he were floating on air, such elation inside him that he almost grew teary-eyed for the second time that night. Ingrid and Sylvain could forgive him to their heart's content, but it was Felix's absolution that meant the most to the King. Others may have simply complied to make him feel good — or to shut him up — but the Duke of Fraldarius was nobody's lapdog. When he was emotional, it was for a reason. And, when he had gracious words to give, they were sincere.

The words from Felix Hugo Fraldarius felt almost like an amnesty. Perhaps Dimitri really _had_ vindicated himself with his victory, and his reign, and his apologies from a lifetime ago.

"Well, I should find the others. To apologise to them, too." Dimitri interrupted his companions' conversation.

"Awh, really?" Sylvain frowned. "You only just got here."

"Yeah, and I'm sure they've got _lots_ to update us on," teased Ingrid. "When are houses Gautier and Fraldarius to be united?"

"I can't believe you let her see us," Felix growled at his partner. "I _told_ you we weren't well-hidden!"

"I'm sick of hiding." Sylvain grabbed his hand, only for the Duke to wrest it free again. "Scaredy-cat."

Felix was indignant. "So be it."

"If you'd like to help me find the others, you're welcome to join me," said Dimitri, taking one final bite of dumpling before throwing the empty skewer into the sconce on the wall they stood by.

"We'd love to," said Sylvain.

"I know I saw Ashe by the archery contest earlier?" Ingrid suggested. "I didn't say hello, because… Well, I didn't want him shooting someone's eye out."

"Archery stall it is, then," said Dimitri.

"Ugh, archery," Felix muttered. "Why can't we go to the weapons stall instead?"

"Will you shut _up_ about weapons for once?" Sylvain asked him.

Ingrid laughed. "Do I sense a divorce already?"

And the group began to walk together — just like old times.


	5. Not Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things can fall apart as easily as they are rebuilt.

The archery stall sat at the other edge of the marketplace, according to Ingrid. Dimitri and his friends followed her lead, listening to the babble of people all around him. Once more, peoples' heads began to turn as he passed, a hush rushing through the crowds like an arrow whistling through the air.

"I always forget you're semi-famous," Ingrid's voice was smiling as she led the group through sets of stalls. They passed a whole roasted hog, a shield-painting service, and a stall selling all kinds of beautiful flowers before the archery competition became visible in the distance.

Just as Ingrid made to dart around a group of young children, however, a flash of pink caught the corner of Dimitri's eye. It was familiar somehow — made adrenaline spike in his blood by some primal instinct as he grabbed Ingrid's arm.

"What?" she turned to him as Felix bumped into the back of the King, hissing profanities under his breath. She followed Dimitri's gaze, to where he was staring at a young woman garbed in a beautiful dress of deep black velvet. Gazing down at the wares of a jewellery stall, she was facing away from Dimitri, but he didn't need to see her features to know who it was. That hair of fallen sakura would be recognisable from a mile away. The King felt his feet taking him to her before he could stop himself, his friends joining him.

"Hilda?" Ingrid's voice was quiet as she reached out a hand to touch the woman's shoulder, but the youngest member of House Goneril turned before she could make contact.

Her face was different, somehow. Admittedly, Dimitri hadn't seen much of her since their days in the Officer's Academy. The King knew that she had been spared in the battle at Derdriu, and had since made conscious efforts to make amends with Goneril and the rest of the Alliance, but the smile that Hilda gave upon seeing him seemed almost as if it didn't meet her eyes. While once she'd been chipper — devious — she now simply smiled.

"Ohh, Hilda!" Sylvain gave a frightfully uneasy laugh, and began to muss up the back of his hair as he did when he was nervous. "It's… nice to see you again!"

Hilda beheld him, rosy eyes knowing. "Yeah," she said. "You too, I guess!"

"What're you doing here?" Ingrid asked light-heartedly. "I know you've been busy since you founded that artisan's academy."

"Oh, you know, I was in the area," said Hilda, and she turned back around to view some of the bracelets upon the stall. Dimitri and his friends stood quietly, unsure of if they'd been dismissed. Felix had just yanked at Sylvain's arm and begun to walk away, when Hilda spoke again. "Are we enjoying the festivities?"

The group looked around at each other with unease. "Why, yes," said Ingrid. "Of course. It's… wonderful."

Hilda nodded slightly. "Feels a bit bittersweet, doesn't it?" She turned back around to them in a flurry of skirts. "It's just, like… Why do we celebrate this? We know what the war cost. I almost died, but I held my own. Not everybody was so lucky."

The way Hilda's eyes locked with Dimitri's as she spoke made his blood run cold. He felt his eyebrows crease, becoming almost frightened at the intensity of her words. She'd said them so innocently — almost as though she hadn’t been thinking about them — but they hit the King in the gut with the power they held. She was right. _Not everybody was so lucky_.

Dimitri’s mind began to whirr; Hilda knew. She must have. She must have known the fate that had met the Adrestian Emperor that one fateful day — known of the King's butchery and his despicable actions that had ended the war.

"I tried to reason with her…" His voice was so feeble, no more than a rattle in his throat.

Hilda raised an eyebrow at him. "Hm...? Anyway, I'm sorry to be a downer. It's a really lovely festival, Your Majesty." She looked out at the celebrations around her. "I kind of just expected to spend the anniversary alone. Thought everyone would be mourning, instead. But, everyone has different ways of coping, I guess!"

The way she could still speak so cheerily despite the content of her words astounded the King. She'd seen death and destruction — she'd wanted to mourn the anniversary alone — but instead, she was here.

"What brought you here?" he asked.

She cocked her head in thought. "I didn't want to miss it. Wanted to see how the monastery was doing, do some shopping…"

"It's not like you to go out of your way for anything," said Felix. Evidently, he'd heard of the woman's laziness in her academy days.

"Ha! And it's not like you to care about anybody else's business,” she replied with equal snark.

Felix simply narrowed his eyes in response.

"Either way, Hilda, it is… wonderful to see you," Dimitri told her honestly. Seeing her was warming, in a way; Dimitri hadn't expected to see anybody who'd been from the Alliance here, for fear that they weren't pleased with his victory. While on the one hand it was good to know he wasn't so hated, on the other, Hilda's visit had jarred him. For some reason, despite his contented surprise, her presence had sent a wave of unease through him — had set his every nerve to twitching. It served as a reminder of just how much this war had affected Fódlan — of how many people had been rattled and whose lives had been thrown upside down. People who Dimitri expected to turn their backs on him after the war were still around — still existed — and still mourned the events he'd brought to a close one year ago.

"Yeah, it's nice to be back," she said, placing down a bracelet and thanking the woman behind the stall. She then spotted something behind Dimitri, and crossed through the Lions to poke her nose at the arrangement of flowers they’d previously walked past. "Don't think I'll be staying long, though," Hilda continued speaking as she sensed herself being joined. "This place kinda gives me the creeps, somehow."

"Oh?" Sylvain's interest was piqued. "Why's that?"

Hilda shrugged, perusing the flower selection. "Lot of memories."

"I understand that," Ingrid's face looked concerned. "It is a bit strange. Being somewhere you once knew so well, only for it to be completely changed."

"Oh, you mean like that?" The other woman sounded dismissive. "No, this feeling is different."

"In what way…?" asked Dimitri, feeling as though he could sense what she was talking about; like Garreg Mach was full of the ghosts of the Black Eagles, whether in the form of memories or spirits.

Hilda turned back towards them, having completed her purchase. "Anyway," she said, ignoring the King's question. "I'm gonna head off. Got places to be tomorrow, you know? Always so busy.” She held a bunch of flowers in her hands: curved petals of a deep, rich purple, with small white heads in the centre.

"Of course," Ingrid said. "It was wonderful catching up with you."

"Oh, yeah, and you too! Make sure you... keep on doing whatever it is knights do! You are a knight, right?"

Ingrid looked a little put out. "Yep, I'm a knight..."

"Good to know! Enjoy the rest of the festival!"

And just like that, the woman was walking away, pink ponytails twirling behind her.

"Why was she buying a bunch of flowers?" Felix sounded judgmental as always.

"Those were statice," Sylvain corrected him.

Ingrid narrowed her eyes. "Why do _you_ know what kind of flowers they were?"

But Dimitri's breath had caught in his throat.

_Statice..._

He'd heard that word before. Once, in a conversation so long ago it felt like another lifetime.

"Because they're Marianne's favourite flowers."

Each face turned to look at Dimitri. He was met with confusion from Felix, fear from Sylvain, but Ingrid's fell to one of complete mortification.

 _Marianne_.

Marianne von Edmund — the most gentle soul Dimitri had ever known. So quiet, so understated. The King's mind shot back in time; a memory so distant and far away it felt as though he were living it through someone else’s eyes, looking down upon his own skulking, brooding form pacing back and forth.

Back in his tent on the edge of a battlefield, in the midst of his darkest moments during the war, mere minutes after a victory in combat. He'd heard voices just outside his tent — semi-familiar ones, of soldiers in his battalion.

"Hey, did anyone see Marianne in that battle? I expected her to be with the Alliance forces."

"Oh, you haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Well, it's just a rumour, but…"

The words that had followed next had widened Dimitri's eyes even in spite of his mental state. At that time of his life, he’d hardly cared who he killed — who was dead. But Marianne von Edmund was so sweet and gentle that even the mere memory of her had managed to pull Dimitri from his darkness, if only for a split second.

Yes, he remembered. He looked into the faces of Ingrid and Felix and Sylvain, and they remembered too. Rumour had it that Marianne was no longer part of this plane; rumour had it that she'd taken her own life after the devastation had become too much.

Hilda, her favourite person, had been buying statice, her favourite flower.

The soft, light voice of the delicate mage filled Dimitri's ears, from their conversation eternities ago. "It symbolises fond memories, but also sympathy… I feel I can relate to it."

Flowers were a common offering upon the grave of a loved one.

Dimitri felt himself falling again. His heart sunk from whence it had once floated in his chest, the feeling of the dull, black ache beginning to swirl once again in his lungs, ensnaring his core and tightening until it was suffocating.

Hilda had had to leave early to visit Marianne’s place of rest. She’d come back to Garreg Mach, but had been unable to stay, haunted by the memories of her dearest. She’d silently bought flowers, spoken not a single word of her heartache, and had left.

 _No_. Dimitri couldn't let himself fall. He couldn't return to those depths. _N_ _o!_ He had to climb — he had to be free. He couldn't lose himself, not after all he'd worked for—

All at once, he was asphyxiating. His breath came in short, ragged bursts as he was physically unable to fill his lungs with the air he so desperately needed. His vision became darker, the bloody vignette returning, rendering him in purblind hysteria.

"Your Majesty? Dimitri?" Voices sounded faint around him as he looked at his hands — trapped within their gloves — until eventually he heard nothing but a ring. A high-pitched drone cut everything else out, and beneath it, the clanging of steel on steel, sword upon shield, screams and calls and begs for mercy. Marianne’s face darted in and out of existence behind his eyelids, pained and sad and tired. War had been too much for her. Dimitri’s actions, and his incompetence, had aided in driving her from this world.

The King was blind, deaf, and could feel nothing except for the searing pain in his lungs and blood pumping hard through his body.

He didn't know where he was, but had to get out. The ghosts were back. He had to run.


	6. Sanctum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King finds solace in unexpected places.

Marianne's death had made Dimitri rampage.

When he'd first heard the rumour, his blood had run cold. He'd steeled himself, furious at the whispers and gossiping that had spread around the camp, and had continued onwards as best as his unsound mental state had allowed.

But when the next battle had rolled around, and the soft-spoken Bishop had been nowhere in sight, Dimitri had felt fire within him. His chest had grown hot, his throat tight with rage. It was Hilda's eyes, however — those once-artful eyes showing nothing but dull, aching pain — that had riled Dimitri into a frenzy.

That had been his most vicious battle. Roaring until his voice was hoarse and he'd coughed up blood; sweeping through the enemy forces like they were nothing more than matchsticks; feeling nothing as swords nicked his skin and sliced at his armour. Dimitri had felt wrath: pure, unadulterated fury blazing within him like an untamed inferno. Marianne had been taken from this world, her loss had affected so many, and never again would Fódlan experience anybody so sweet.

Dimitri had lost a part of himself upon her death. It could never be replaced.

* * *

At long last, after what had felt like endless hours of nothing but haunting, horrifying images playing over and over inside his mind, the King finally felt himself coming back down.

The screams had faded from his ears. Even the whispers had calmed until eventually they dissipated, blowing away upon the wind that gently riffled through his hair.

 _The wind_.

Where was he? Dimitri gently pried open his eyelids, seeing — as usual — nothing from his right eye. Dim light filtered gently into the vision of his left, though — grey and dusky and vague. With a soft grunt, one hand scrabbled against the back of his head and he pulled his eyepatch away from his face, allowing his bad eye to sear with pain as feeble dregs of light pressed against it. The vision that came to it was blurred and hazy, but at least he was free from the confines of the eyepatch.

He looked around himself, becoming aware that he was curled up in the foetal position on the floor; something hard against his back seeped a chilliness through his garments and into his skin. He made to push himself upright, feeling a cold, slick substance beneath his bare hands: wet stone. The floor was rough brick, the wall was made from the same material, and the room he'd woken up in appeared to be narrow and circular, with a high ceiling above him.

"Oh. Hey, Your Highness."

A voice echoed around Dimitri, half-sending him spiralling again. Another ghost? Another voice? Another mental demon come to torture him—?

The King looked to his left, seeing a small figure sitting alone in the centre of the room. The voice had been young: boyish, winsome. And... familiar, somehow.

"… Cyril?" The King's voice resonated against the damp brick walls around him.

"Yeah," that youthful voice came back at him. Dimitri heard shuffles, and then saw the silhouette of the boy grow closer, until eventually the sliver of the moon's glow through the open window bathed him in light.

He didn't look any different from how Dimitri had last seen him. Curls of dark chocolate rested messily atop his head, a small red scar visible from beneath the tresses that fell into his eyes — his eyes of a sunset upon sand. His clothes didn't look particularly spectacular; he certainly wasn't dressed in finery, looking to be still wearing the new uniform of Garreg Mach employees.

"You okay, Your Majesty? You seemed pretty shaken up."

Dimitri fought to comprehend his words. Where were they both? How had he gotten here? How long had he been here? The questions began to circle in his mind like cackling vultures, weighing up his enervated brain for their next meal. He let his head droop, looking down at his pale, scarred hands, before he returned his gaze to the boy. "I _am_ shaken up, Cyril," he agreed.

"I figured." He readjusted his position so he sat cross-legged. "I wondered why else I'd find you up here."

"Where is 'here'?" Dimitri asked.

"Huh? You don't know? Well, I guess it's been a while since you were here. This is an abandoned watch tower. How come you're not down at the festival?"

 _An abandoned watch tower_. Somewhere deep in the monastery grounds, so far away from the celebration that he couldn't even hear it anymore. His panic must have taken him lengths — made him scrabble, terrified, through Garreg Mach until he'd found somewhere he'd deemed safe. This wasn't the first time he'd dissolved into panic and awoken in a new situation. "How did you find me?"

Cyril shuffled where he sat. "I just saw you running through the monastery, and wanted to check you were okay. I was calling after you and stuff, but you couldn't hear me, I think. So I followed you, and we ended up here."

Unlike most other citizens, Cyril beheld Dimitri not with a look of awe or disbelief, nor even with fright or concern. The boy looked simply like he was talking to an old acquaintance, fazed by neither Dimitri's harrowed mental state, nor by his status.

"Thank you for looking out for me." Passion had left Dimitri's body. He was grateful, but he was _tired_. The night had seemed to drag on for an age already, emotions wheeling through him faster than he could keep track of. "I… feel better."

"You sure? You seemed really…" He shrugged. "… not okay."

"I'll be fine with time."

Silence fell throughout the room. Dimitri's breathing was still heavy — still ragged from how his lungs had fought to intake breath amidst his hysteria. The boy merely looked at him quietly.

“Alright. Well, unless you want me to leave, I'll stay with you. To make sure you're okay."

His youthful optimism brought a breath of a laugh from the King's nose, managing to amuse him despite everything. "Thank you, Cyril. I'd appreciate that."

And he got back to thinking. The night around him was almost silent; the watchtower must have been near trees, for Dimitri could hear the soft hoots of a single owl from out of the shattered window. The breeze could be heard whistling through branches, disturbing the leaves and causing them to rustle. He let his eyes drift shut, embracing the calm and the quiet and letting his heart return to its normal slow pace.

He thought of Dedue. The love of his life, probably cooking up a beautiful soup right now. Perhaps Annette and Mercedes would be encouraging him — perhaps Ingrid and the others had joined them to cheer for their childhood classmate. In a way, Dimitri wished he could be there with them, but then he thought of having to apologise to them. Having to dig up their old memories of war, ruining their night as he'd ruined Hilda's. As he'd ruined his own. And he grimaced. No — he wasn't ready to face anybody just yet.

"What happened to your eye, Your Highness?" Cyril piped up with such genuine inquisitiveness. "I never knew why you covered it up, but it looks like it hurts."

 _Ah, yes_. His eye. Dimitri was used to repelling the repulsive memories of his past that often came hurtling back to him, but the memory of his eye always genuinely made him shudder. As though the cold of the wetness all around him had finally seeped through to his bones, the King gave a shiver as the thought of what he'd once done snaked its way into his mind once more.

"Yes, I, uh…" His ghosts taunting him, his own tortured screams. "I wasn't… in a good frame of mind." His fingernails clawing; the warmth of blood cascading over his hands; the burning, blinding, white-hot pain. "I didn't want to see anymore." Dedue rushing to his side and prying his hand away as he howled. "But, it doesn't hurt anymore," he reassured the boy, opening his eyes yet again.

Cyril remained quiet a moment, eyes earnest. "Sorry to hear that... It sounds awful."

"It was a long time ago." One eye being so blurred, having lost almost all vision from where he'd scratched at it years ago, could be disorienting. Looking in the mirror, though, was the worst part. Dimitri wore the eyepatch not to ease his eyes from processing one clear and one blurred image — he wore it to stop the world from seeing his scars. Dedue had seen them — had tended to them when they were raw, and ran delicate fingers over them each night, reminding the King that he loved every part of him. The rest of Fódlan, however, did not need to see the ugly red blemishes that streaked his eyelid.

"Tell ya what, Your Majesty," Cyril chirped, giving a small grunt as he stood up. "Why don't we go and get some tea? That might cheer you up!"

Dimitri could not stop a small laugh from leaving his nose. This freshness — this innocence. What the King wouldn't do to have that back.

"I've got Almyran pine — that's my favourite! — and crescent-moon tea... Oh, and honeyed fruit, chamomile—"

"Chamomile," Dimitri said, the memories of drinking it with his father in his youth flooding back to him. "Yes."

The King began to stand, taking Cyril's small hand as an offer of help, and felt the chill of the dark, dank watchtower press in around him.

"D'you want anyone else to join us for tea? If you've got friends at the festival you want to invite, I'll happily go find 'em for ya." Cyril began to lead Dimitri from the room, down a narrow spiral staircase that he had no memory of ever climbing before.

"No thank you, Cyril. It would be nice just the two of us." Dimitri thought he could use the boy's freshness — his juvenile exuberance. Perhaps it would open his mind, and teach him how to recover.

"Yeah, that's cool too. I've got new chamber all of my own now! I attend all the classes that you used to!"

“That’s wonderful news.” Dimitri stepped out of the watchtower's crumbling doorway and into the grounds at the back of the monastery. Looking around, he couldn't work out where he was; he couldn't hear a thing from the festival, nor see the burning torches in the distance. The sun had fully set, and the moon lit a silvery path for the two men to navigate across the field. As he counted the stars, Dimitri began to wonder. _How long have I been out of it?_

With dismay, he realised that boots had been sucked into the muddy, marshy mire that came with Garreg Mach's disused grounds. He tried to quickly catch up with Cyril's pace, who had already begun to traverse the field in the direction of the monastery's brooding silhouette, but the suction of the mud beneath the King’s feet made his movements slow. The boy turned around, hearing Dimitri's boots make loud squelching noises with his every step, and began to laugh loudly.

"Are you laughing at my boots…?" Dimitri asked with an almost pained smile.

"They sound so funny!"

The King shook his head, joy creeping into his empty, sullen heart. He needed a cup of tea with this boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to read the story of how I believe Dimitri to have lost his eye, feel free to read it here!
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/25696168
> 
> TW for gore


	7. Regularity's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future is in sight.

_"Dimitri, you need to start thinking of all the good things you've done."_

Dedue's phantom voice was at the forefront of his mind as he sipped upon chamomile tea, Cyril pottering around with a kettle before him. He remembered being in bed, mere months after the end of the war, crying yet again at the devastation. Too many funerals to attend for fallen lords and ladies — too many ceremonies held to commemorate the lives of the soldiers lost in mass graves. Dimitri knew a king should be strong, but nobody could be this strong.

Nobody could watch hundreds of loved ones cry: the devastated mothers, the confused children, the fathers trying to be strong. The wives drowning in grief, the husbands whose lives had lost meaning. Yet, whenever Dimitri had approached the mourning, they'd thanked him.

Why would they thank him? He'd _caused_ this devastation. He was the reason for it — the reason why they were mourning, and why their loved ones were dead.

"No," Dedue had told him, stroking his face where tears had fallen. "You're the reason why everything ended. You're the reason they're still alive, and why they haven't joined their fallen ones. They're thanking you because you stopped this war."

His words had seemed hollow at the time; Dimitri had been so full of woe and terror and remorse. He'd felt so empty, and so guilty. So very, very guilty. People had died when he could have saved them. People mourned because he hadn't been fast enough, or powerful enough, or strong enough.

"You've done so much more for them than you realise." Dedue had almost whispered the words. "You give them reason to wake up in the morning, promising to rebuild what has been destroyed. You're the reason they still live freely — why Fódlan is no longer war-torn. Give yourself more credit, Dimitri. The past can not be redone, so do not dwell. The future is still ahead, and you can fill it with so many more good things."

Cyril's voice brought him back to the present, to where he sat across a small wooden table from the bright-eyed boy. "Whatcha thinking about, Your Majesty?"

Dimitri thought a moment. Dedue was right; the only reason Cyril could be here now — why he'd been able to enroll as a student — was because peace had returned. The King did not like to take credit — it felt far too self-centred — but Cyril's future had brightened since the war had ended. When he answered, he answered honestly. "About the good things."

The boy thought a moment, and then nodded. "There've been plenty of good things. Especially since you won."

With a slight surge of panic, Dimitri felt his cheeks begin to heat. He did not deal well with compliments, but the boy's words fortified the thoughts Dimitri had just been mulling over; yes, thanks to the end of the war, Cyril's life was better.

"Well, what are _you_ thinking about, Cyril?" asked Dimitri with a smile.

"I was thinking about heavy armour, actually!"

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Because we were taught about it earlier in a special lecture. It was super interesting! I always thought I was a bit… small for heavy armour, but apparently anyone can use it!" And the boy began to drink from his own cup.

_A special lecture. Heavy armour._ Too many bells were ringing with his words. "Do you know who taught you?" Dimitri asked.

"Yeah, of course! Your best friend, from Duscur!"

_Dedue_. Dimitri felt himself smile. Dedue certainly was his best friend, but he was so much more. Of course, the world wasn't about to know that.

"I was thinking about it because he was looking for you earlier."

"He what?" Concern momentarily clouded the King's good spirits.

"Yeah, before I heard you running. I was just cleaning up the dining hall when he came to find me, and said he was looking for you."

Dimitri wished he had been told that before. He didn't voice that, however; instead, he sipped upon more chamomile tea, feeling small dregs of the natural, earthy flavour hit his tongue, calming him. _He was just looking for me. That's all._

Dimitri had become far more quick to panic over the past few months. He'd already lost so much — so many of those dear to him — that he tended to worry even at the slightest provocation. Alas, Dedue had merely been looking for him — wondering where he was, and wanting to find him. As far as Cyril had mentioned, there had been no alarm, nor cause for concern, nor anything pressing that Dimitri's love had needed him for.

But, if Dedue had been looking for him, it could only be for one reason. Because he'd been warned of Dimitri's episode, and was worrying about him as a result.

_So much worry_.

"I should find him." Dimitri tried to sound composed as he scalded his tongue on his tea. "He may have wanted me for something."

Cyril gave a boyish snigger. "Being a king must be so busy! I don't think I could ever do your job."

_I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy_ , thought Dimitri in turn. "I don't think I could do yours either, Cyril!" He gave a warm smile. "You practically run Garreg Mach yourself, and you're a student!"

"Aw, jeez, Your Majesty, you don't have to be so nice."

"Call me Dimitri, I insist."

"Oh, yeah, Dimitri. Sure. Well, your friend was in the dining hall, last I saw of him. Want me to help you find him?"

Dimitri stood, sucking down the rest of the tea, and placed his cup back on its saucer. "I'll be fine, thank you. I'm sure it will be about some boring kingly matters."

"Ah, yeah. I think my brain'd explode if I tried to get involved."

The King laughed and headed for the door of Cyril's dorm. "Thank you for the tea, Cyril. And for helping me."

"That's no problem," he replied as Dimitri began to step out into the chill of the night again. "Oh, Your— Dimitri!"

He turned. "Yes?"

Cyril rushed over to him, holding something out in his hand. "You left this."

And the King was returned his eyepatch, the flimsy black material looking so small and insignificant in his palm. "Thank you."

"Have a nice night."

Dimitri smiled at the boy, having a shy smirk directed back at him. "You too."

He heard the door shut behind him, and set off walking through the monastery, crumpling the eye patch and shoving it into his pocket. It was frightening how similar everything looked to Dimitri's academy days. What was perhaps more frightening was how it could send Dimitri back in time — make him feel no more than a schoolchild, as though no time had passed and no war had been waged.

The King knew he wouldn't find Dedue by the dining hall. He walked through the empty grounds, hearing the mewls of cats hidden in the shadows as his boots rang upon the ground beneath him. Dedue would be just where Dimitri expected.

Reaching the stone stairs that led down into the marketplace, the King saw a broad figure standing alone upon the top step, silhouetted against the festival's torchlight. As soon as he laid eyes upon the scene, it was as though Dedue sensed his presence, turning and heading towards his love.

"Dimitri, your eye—" his deep voice called out as light illuminated his face.

"I don't care about my eye right now, Dedue," Dimitri responded, continuing to walk towards him. "I'm just glad I've found you."

"And I you."

"You would not believe the night I've had."

"I think I would. Ingrid told me what happened."

"Of course," said the King as they reached each other. They kept walking until they collided, falling into each other's arms and holding on tight, hoping never to let go.

"I'm glad you're better," Dedue whispered into the King's ear, low tones drawing quivers to Dimitri's skin.

"How can you tell?" he whispered back.

"There is life in your eyes. And, I can see both of them."

Dimitri smiled, and the two pulled apart. Dedue knew how self-conscious Dimitri was about his scars, and about the semi-blindness that accompanied freeing his right eye. It was unheard of for the King to be seen in public without covering it up. But, Dimitri truly didn't care. He was back with his love, with something bright and light fluttering within his chest, and for seemingly the first time in his life, the King felt…

Normal.

"Would you like to tell everybody, Dedue?" Dimitri asked his love, knowing that no elaboration was needed.

The man simply looked at him, passion dancing in his viridescent eyes.

"I'm exhausted of keeping us a secret. I love you. And I want to share that love. I want to rule with you."

A soft breath of a laugh left Dedue's nostrils. "You know I've never been the ruling type."

"I know," Dimitri gave a bashful smile. "But I feel I would do a better job with you by my side, my Duscan Prince."

"Stop," Dedue chuckled and rolled his eyes, giving Dimitri a gentle shove. "I will always be by your side, whether we are officially united or not."

The King knew he meant well. Dedue was more shy — even a little more nervous — of their relationship becoming public. Dimitri knew it came from the hardships he'd endured — from his childhood of being shamed for his identity. He knew that Dedue struggled to feel worthy of the King's love; he feared being rejected by Fódlan. But that was an irrational fright.

"Of course I want to be with you, Dimitri," he said, turning and looking out of the open doors into the celebration beyond. "But, let the world heal a little first."


	8. Peace Reigns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King comes to terms with his past at long last.

Dimitri felt his love's hand upon his shoulder, tapping slightly in a prompt. Understanding at once, Dimitri lowered himself, and sat delicately upon the top step, Dedue joining him. That hand remained on his shoulder, his arm wrapped comfortingly around the King, basking in each other's warmth.

"It's been a whole year. But I know it still plagues you." Dedue's voice was rough, but somehow so smooth. Deep, but somehow so light. "Relive it. Tell me what happened — what you saw."

Could he, though? Was that possible? Reliving that moment had only ever ended in panic. He'd already panicked once tonight — felt fear and madness flood him once again as memories of war and loss had razed him. He didn't want that again.

"Keeping it inside of you will only make you rot."

 _Yes_. He'd been rotting away for too long already. The King inhaled and his eyelids closed, allowing dust to fill his mind's eye and blacken his vision before dissipating, settling to reveal the Imperial Palace - the heart of Enbarr — that he'd stood in exactly one year ago.

She'd been opposite him. Once, Dimitri knew his sister would have stood so proudly — powerfully, as she always had in her youth. Back when her hair had been its warm, chestnut colour, and her eyes had been smiling to see him, she would have stood with broad shoulders and an inflated chest, confident and poised.

She couldn't have looked more different in that moment. The monster before him had disintegrated, the gnarled black armour ebbing away until the fierce red of her garb had threatened to sear Dimitri's eye with its vibrancy — almost glowing beneath the sunlight. Her hair had been like the sheets of snow that enveloped Fhirdiad, her eyes just as cold. With pinprick pupils, she'd knelt upon the floor, shoulders hunched and chest heaving. Almost hungrily, she'd looked up into Dimitri's eyes, as though spurring him onwards — daring him to kill her

He wasn't about to do that.

He stretched out a hand to his sister and opened his palm wide, silently asking her to take it. He'd tried to reconcile with her once before, and he was not capable of letting her simply die.

"El."

Something had stirred behind her eyes at his voice — something unplaceable. She'd looked almost touched by an epiphany as her eyelids had widened, her pupils dilating slightly. Dimitri's lips had parted as he'd locked eyes with her, but no words had come out. No words were needed. The King and the Emperor had exchanged words before — had tried desperately to reconcile — but they were simply too different. Their ideals incompatible: their worlds opposed. Any words the King could have spoken would have fallen flat, he knew; it was better to say nothing, but to silently beg her to reconsider.

Now that Dimitri stood over her — now that she had slumped, weaponless, to the ground, truly at her match — Dimitri had thought she'd understand. He'd thought she would come to her senses: would finally reach out her hand and take his, and they could try one more time to reconnect.

Once he'd seen her hand shoot out, however — once he'd seen the sun glint off the sliver of steel — his battle instincts had kicked in. One second ago, he'd felt so calm, his heart scarcely daring to beat as he'd mentally pleaded Edelgard to join him, but in an instant, adrenaline had blinded his good eye and made his muscles jerk. Her dagger had cut through the air, whistling as it sliced its path towards him, but he'd moved aside just slightly, feeling it bite through his armour to plunge into the soft, fragile skin beneath. Pain had blossomed in his shoulder immediately, and his other arm had shot forward. He'd heard fabric tear, and then the all-too familiar noise of skin parting to make way for his weapon had filled his ears. The sound of blood being drawn, of Areadbhar scraping against bone.

When his vision had swum back to him and his lips had tightened in realisation, Fódlan's King had suddenly felt as though he were made from stone: every muscle weakening and threatening to collapse under his weight. His spear had cut its way through his sister. Life had faded from Edelgard's eyes: the passionate spark waning until her soul had parted, leaving her irises a dull, muted purple, like the petals of dead lilac. With one shaky breath, Dimitri had pulled Areadbhar back towards him, heard blood spurt from her open wound to drench her already-scarlet clothes, and had watched his sister fall, lifeless, to the ground.

The dagger that had impaled his shoulder had been his own — one he'd last laid hands upon years ago in their childhood. He'd inhaled shakily. He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't wanted it to come to this.

As he remembered, sitting with Dedue with his eyes shut tight, all the emotions he'd felt in that moment — fear and regret, anger and confusion, betrayal and sorrow, guilt and pain — refused to come back to the King.

He'd felt them thousands of times before. They'd chased him, unrelenting — had mocked him and howled at him and beaten him into the ground as he'd tried desperately to push them away. He'd cried himself to sleep over them, had screamed and collapsed and covered his ears to block them out, but now? The King felt nothing.

It was done. Dedue was right, as always. Edelgard had refused his offer — had accepted death rather than accept a compromise — and had died doing what she believed in.

Dimitri supposed it could only ever have ended that way. That was how she'd been in her youth. In her academy days. And in death. Edelgard had died as herself. He knew that was how she'd be happiest.

His eyes fluttered open once again, feeling his eyelashes dry for once and his heart beating with ease. The King missed his sister dearly, but for the sake of Fódlan — for his friends and his subjects — her rule could not have lasted. They could not have compromised, for the risk of putting the land in peril of collapse and conflict. In the end, he had fought for what he'd believed in, and for what would be best, and that was all he could have done. His troops had been stronger. He had won.

His sister would have killed him, and he was lucky to have his life. While he still had it, he would focus on correcting everything that went wrong, and on making Fódlan better for everyone.

It would take time to finally forgive himself, of course, but Dimitri was getting there. He rested his head upon Dedue's shoulder, felt the man plant a kiss in his hair, and they looked out upon the celebrations that Dimitri finally felt at peace with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for supporting this little self-indulgent story, everyone! It's the first thing I've ever really worked hard on, so I'd love to hear what you thought! I'm always open to some suggestions of what I could write next...? ;) Hope you enjoyed!


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally forgiving himself, Dimitri allows himself to continue with a normal existence. The first way he goes about this is by marrying the love of his life.

Dimitri had hoped his wedding would be perfect.

Alas, he lived in Faerghus, where it snowed nine months of the year and hailed the other three. He had thought that holding the wedding in the Garland Moon’s summer embrace would keep them safe from the woes of Faerghan weather.

He had been wrong.

An hour before the wedding was to commence in Fhirdiad’s palace gardens, a sheet of rain had poured down on the ceremony’s fixtures thick and heavy. The archway beneath which they would marry, made from weaving white and blue roses together, had been battered by the raindrops until its petals had almost all fallen off.

After hurriedly moving all of the furniture into the palace’s foyer instead, the wedding had proceeded otherwise perfectly. 

Well, how could it not be perfect? He was marrying Dedue after all.

The grooms had chosen each other’s outfits for the wedding: Dimitri wore a black suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie, and Dedue donned a white suit, black shirt, and silver tie. Everybody had commented that they’d looked astounding, and they’d felt it.

Of course, nothing came close to Dedue’s beauty. The man’s smile upon seeing Dimitri had seemed to clear the sky outside — brought rays of sunshine into the room with him. He recited his vows in his deep, dulcet voice, the tones like velvet flowing through Dimitri’s ears. And Dimitri had spoken his back — the most sincere, heartfelt words he’d ever mustered. Scripted words could never compare to how he actually felt inside, but Dedue assured him that he understood.

Now, he stood towards the back of the palace’s dining hall, looking out over the reception and at his friends and family enjoying themselves. Ashe and Mercedes stood by the buffet table to one side, poring over the selection of sweet treats. Sylvain and Felix had stolen away to one corner, whispering to one another as they had on the night of the Anniversary Festival. Dedue had sidled up to Dimitri’s side then, holding out a teacup of hot chocolate for him.

Dimitri thanked him, then spoke his thoughts freely. “I wonder when we might attend Sylvain and Felix’s wedding. Soon, I should hope. I have the perfect gift in mind for them.”

Dedue chuckled. “I do not doubt it. You always were the best at gift-giving.”

“You flatter me,” Dimitri smiled. “Well, it helps when your recipient has good taste.”

Dedue gave an almost bashful smile; evidently, he too remembered the first gift Dimitri had gotten him — a bouquet of white and blue roses. “I truly do believe we’re meant for each other. In every way.”

Dimitri nuzzled into his shoulder and felt the man’s arm wrap around his waist. He took a sip of his drink, feeling its thick sweetness warm his throat. Many of the guests drank a fantastic-smelling spiced wine that Dedue had helped the kitchen to make, but Dimitri didn’t like to drink. Since the war, he found alcohol clouded his mind in an unpleasant way — reminding him more of his crazed dark days than cheery merry ones.

Thus, Dimitri drank hot chocolate. He could taste again, to a certain extent. Sweet flavours stood out the most, and he was thankful for that; Dedue knew just how much cream to add to his cups to make them perfect.

Everything Dedue did was perfect.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Dimitri replied at last. “I’m so glad we finally did this. Finally told everyone.”

“Me too. Even if we surprised nobody...” Dedue chuckled.

“True! We really weren’t as subtle as we thought we were.”

The two men looked out at the reception — at everybody they loved enjoying themselves. Even some of the wait staff danced with each other to the jovial tones of Dorothea Arnault’s newly-formed band. How she managed to incorporate operatic singing into almost tavern-style music was beyond Dimitri, but it was incredible.

Everything was incredible. The night passed too quickly, but soon it was way into the wee hours of the morning and time for the Kings of Fódlan to retreat to their bedchambers. They stumbled up the stairs, drunk purely on excitement and merriment and their unwavering adoration for one another. Their suits were tossed aside, they became buried beneath their thick, feather-stuffed bed covers, and their hot breath warmed one another’s skin. Dedue’s smelled sweet.

“Did you drink the last of the hot chocolate…?” Dimitri asked with a giggle.

“Mayhaps,” Dedue teased.

“May I taste some…?”

Without a word, Dedue pressed his lips against Dimitri’s, allowing him to taste the rich, chocolatey sugar. They kissed for what felt like hours, never relenting. They pressed against one another, breathing in one another’s faded cologne and their faint natural musk.

Everything was perfect. Everything was as it should be. Dimitri would always regret the war, but at long, long last, he had found peace. He had found his love, had come to terms with the new Fódlan, and he could move on.

And he couldn’t have been happier.


End file.
